“Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.”

I can’t sleep without knowing there’s hope. Half the night I waste in sighs. In a wakeful doze I sorrow. For the hands, for the lips… the eyes. For the meeting of tomorrow.

I am a part of all that I have met.

Her eyes are homes of silent prayers.

Theirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.

The quiet sense of something lost.

God’s finger touched him, and he slept.

Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt.

I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul.

The parting of a husband and wife is like the cleaving of a heart; one half will flutter here, one there.

If I had a flower for every time I thought of you. I could walk through my garden forever.

My doom is, I love thee still. Let no man dream but that I love thee still.

Life is brief but love is LONG .

My life has crept so long on a broken wing Through cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing.

Men at most differ as Heaven and Earth, but women, worst and best, as Heaven and Hell.

The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence but in the mastery of his passions.

Love is the only gold.

Every man must do two things alone; he must do his own believing and his own dying.

You know what I always say about basketball whenever anybody tried to tell me the Knicks are gonna be good: They’re old. Old people don’t get healthy. They die.

The rose that once has bloomed forever dies.

I am not going to die, I’m going home like a shooting star.

We may rest assured that God would never have suffered any infants to be slain except those who were already damned and predestined for eternal death.

We all mourn in our own way. I mourn with a great steak.

Sleep and death, two twins of winged race, Of matchless swiftness, but of silent pace.

Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!